|lokifan (lokifan) wrote in neville100,|
@ 2011-06-09 09:22:00
|Entry tags:||lokifan, prompt 176: sky|
Word count: 500
Summary: Neville and Draco on a summer night. Also, how elemental opposites make good lovers.
Warnings: fluff, hitting you over the head with a theme I find romantic
Disclaimer: The boys and girls belong to JKR, even though I’m often much nicer to them than she is.
Author’s Notes: FYI: this can be split into 5 100-word drabbles, but I stripped the pauses out to make it flow better - I can put them back if need be :) Also, it occurs to me that my own associations with the word ‘twilight’ fit perfectly for this little thing but they will perhaps be overwhelmed for readers by American vampires. >:
Neville is an earthy type. Not just that he’s a little bit common for a pureblood, since his grandmother never taught him rarefied tastes. He's also down-to-earth, sensible, and so tied to the ground he feels he was born with soil between his fingers. He’s never craved Gryffindor fire, or the cool ease of swimming; when he was little he'd escape his grandmother for the garden and scraping soil about with a stick, and nothing’s changed.
Draco used to escape his parents’ parties via a broomstick. Once, a little drunk, Draco had explained how at the age of seven he'd crash-landed his broomstick on the buffet table at a garden party and been entirely swallowed by tiramisu.
Apparently his father had laughed helplessly, and his mother had helped little Draco out of the pile of pudding. It is this story that has made it impossible for Neville to hate Draco's parents, though it's not why Neville did as they asked at the trials.
Now he and Draco are old enough to be allowed a more permanent retreat: this little cottage where Neville potters in the garden, privacy wards holding out the journalists. Tonight he’s watering flowers, and helping the raspberries along: Draco likes tart berries that sting the mouth.
Every so often Neville glances up into the fading summer light, to see the shape of Draco, swooping like a swallow, wheeling and gliding and loop-the-looping. Every so often a whoop reaches Neville through the clear twilight air.
He smiles, watching Draco move effortlessly through the sky, and silently promises him again that he’ll never see Azkaban.
He turns back to weeding the Ophelia's Rosemary. A few minutes later, there's a brush of air and the thump of Draco’s boots hitting the ground. He turns and smiles, his stomach tightening at the sight of his windswept Draco suddenly so close, with flushed cheeks and tousled hair. Draco grins sunnily at him. Then Draco drops his broomstick, reaching for Neville instead.